ananya guha


Dream Wings

Dream wings
are far, the nearer
they come dreams
are distinct, distilled
and your waking hours
are lost.

Dream wings are water
hyacinths floating beside
stubble and growth.

Dream wings are hard hit
by summer’s malefic ways
and winter’s dreaded hibernation.

Dream wings are soporific
all to sleep, all to a tragic demise.

Dream wings walk though marsh, morass
what else are dreams about?



There is stupor
a way of falling…
who heals
who picks up from
the garbage?
A crow nibbles,
pecks at rotten food.

There are houses nearby
no, no dream houses
but they have dreams
they too weep, shout, eat
and drink

The crow continues to peck
in the garbage.
The black crow intruding
into my water hyacinth dreams.
The crow dreams.

And those houses, thatched
lined in a corner, wait
patiently for the next meal.

The children cry, want more
the father walks out grumbling
the mother consoles (the children)

The crow continues to nibble.
Suddenly there is blood.


Sky Blues

The sun is light
little warmer in the plains
the heat is yet to be turned
on, or tuned, as my breathless
spirit searches for some more
green. Some more sky blues,
and a tepid warmth of the sun
and the hills which know what
living is, in a bird like zone
with the flutter of people
murmuring, those murmurs
which get soaked in the ocean,
with just a light searing across
Sky blues.


What Does?

As I listen to your night song
I know the wilderness is another
moment, not a song, not hyacinth
The mourning, you say stop
those tears are not real, impervious
to truth. I too listen, to a voice and mad mad hallucinatory images

The night song deafens.
I think, it is the call of dogs.
The wilderness opens with the pain.
Pain of listening and the landscape
grows in vastness, measure of reality.

What escapes, what does?


All Three

This winter’s morning
is just an event
saw it across the window
no frost, the sun on parole
this winter’s morning
is like a hesitant shadow.
Shall I ?
The cold is a blurred fantasy
after a night of nothing.

No, don’t remind me
no, not dreams
those soporific elements
bruising time, summer and winter.


There is flight in sadness.
Light, the flight has an onward
curve, and then the light mellows.
It is not darkness, a loop, a heave
a sigh. Sadness is around the corner
in another country, rubric of sorrow.

There is a flight in sadness. Not a tear
a heavy fall of the weight, and then
fair headed lightness. No not a masochist’s
delight. A wonderful flight of up down
light heaviness.
The flight is a runaway ghetto.


Do you remember the river banks
heavy as the frothing waves?
Your face hidden under dark clouds?
We were animals on the oceans of peace
or was there a breathing storm, as the river
took on the uncanny wind?
Shipwrecked. We were destinies
entrapped among the quivering covers
of the vast expanse. Water.
We were soldiers warring among
the winding  sand dunes.
The birds hovered in mesmeric silence.
We held hands. Or was it only hands
as the shaft of light drew us close to
nether lands? Love did not speak.
Only words, tinged with glass hues.

The river became a land, an island
and water drifted searingly.
Eyes radiated in midst
of swirling love.

These clouds are mesmeric
dangling in the sky’s mid rift
and one hears breathing as leaves
rustle. Summer’s bosom lies heavily
on incarnadine fruits. Lotus whisper
of truths. Many untold.

I take this premonitory delight
of the many ways of a seasonal hiatus.
Come let’s escape to serendipity
as the reclusive dawn escapes
into night’s dull trappings.



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